Dregs
by hilarity
Summary: Remus takes a walk in order to reflect upon things; Sirius rides his motorcycle in order to be more manly; London is the canvas as the picture is painted. (implied sr slash)
1. dregs in porcelain

**AN:** Following fic is a three-parter. Any and all slash is, at this point, purely implied, if you so wish to think it.

**Disclaimer:** I own these characters. I do. Honestly. Except not.

**Dregs**

by evanesce

_01. dregs in porcelain_

In the dregs at the bottom of the tea cup, the meaning of life can be found swirling haplessly about, displaying, quite shamefully, every answer to every problem. Or so it would seem. Remus Lupin was attempting to find the answers as best as he knew how using just such a method. Staring at the base of a chipped porcelain cup could hardly be deemed as a worthwhile or productive activity, but when answers need to be uncovered, the brown silt and cold water seem to provide some sort of solace.

Or perhaps not.

Setting the cup down was the second hardest part about that morning; the morning that had been enveloped in rain since four am. Remus had been awake when it started, and intended to be awake until it ended, even if he stood no fighting chance against the bitter pangs of lethargy; lethargy that set in at all the wrong times and at all the wrong places and caused all the wrong things to happen.

Rubbing aching temples with frozen hands (for the tea had been consumed and the dregs examined for the better part of an hour), Remus made to stand up, clutching the cup in one hand, and the ring-stained saucer in the other. He hit his leg on the table and immediately sat back down. The Fates didn't want him to stand up, he argued. Therefore, he wouldn't. And he didn't.

Setting the cup back down was the third hardest part about that morning. It was admitting defeat, and, although the severity to which it affected Remus was at a level altogether less than that which it affect James and Sirius, defeat was something he did not like. But, then again, who does?

Making to stand up again, and carefully pushing his chair out at a safer distance, in order to prevent the same unfortunate collision of man and table, Remus, once more, took up the tea cup and saucer, and managed to set both items in the sink in order to be washed at a later time. He'd have time today, he imaged, but for now he wished to collapse in the sitting room and stare blankly at a wall, per usual. Well, not per usual, but he could always pretend that it was so.

Things are brought down to an elementary level when one stares at walls.

Hoping that such would be the case, even on a desperately lost day as today, Remus flopped down in an armchair, having to push a pile of old tomes rather carelessly onto the area rug below before he could seat himself thusly. If James or Sirius had been here, they would have wanted to check him into St. Mungo's, or even a simple Muggle infirmary, as abuse of books is far from usual Moony-like behaviour, and warrants suspicion of ailments of the mind.

It was August. It was August Twenty-ninth, to be exact; and a Sunday. Exactly two months and one day since he had seen or heard from James or Sirius. Peter had written him once. It was brief, and a month had passed since that single owl flew into his sitting room window (quite literally, which made the situation quite desperate, as the owl remained comatose for a week solid). Remus rather felt that the entire effort had been one forced out of his friend, as Peter was usually never one to correspond with his friends, unless that friend is one James Potter.

Sighing and giving himself a good mental slap, and contemplating a physical one as well, Remus shifted in the chair, golden brown hair falling into his eyes as it so often did. He expended no efforts to relieve himself of this added burden, and instead favoured the slight solitude from the immediate harshness of the bright-grey clouds, concealing the scorching sun.

He sighed again.

Tea. He needed more dregs to stare at. He needed something to occupy his empty hands and racing mind. Perhaps, thinking on a more metaphorical level, a level he dwells on when the world seems to fall short, he needed something warm to fill the proverbial hole in his heart. Oh the sap and agony of it all.

He gave himself another mental slap and stood up sharply, feeling the world shift uneasily as the blood rushed to catch up with his throbbing head.

So tea, then. Yes. Tea.

No. No. Change of heart (oh the irony as well). No tea.

Picking up his very Muggle, very brown jacket; the one with the tartan patches on the elbows that James once called "endearing to the essence of All Things Moony" and Remus supposed that that was a good thing, so he continued to wear it. Being that it wasn't hooded, he realised that arriving back home wet would be an unavoidable consequence of his going out for a stroll whilst the rain still pounded down with a feral persistence. Or a think. Or a whatever he happened to classify this as.

And a scarf. The thought jumped out at him completely out of the context of his train of thought, but now he realised that such an article of clothing wouldn't be entirely out of place. Even if it was August. It would be September soon.

September.

And the first day of the end. The end of everything. There would be no more Hogwarts; no Shrieking Shack; no pranks; no detentions (even if he hadn't been the one receiving them). There would be nothing but a vast expanse of empty white to be filled in and coloured as chosen, with a brand new routine.

There had been two full moons without Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail. If this year was to be different than the last (and the two before that), Remus decided that bearing the moon alone would be the best way to grow accustomed to the feeling of emptiness and neglect, before the general trauma would set in. There would be paranoia, at least. That was unavoidable. It was the very core of what Remus Lupin was. Besides calm. And generally good-natured. And many other things that involve the words "book" and "quiet".

He opened the door; it groaned on heavy, burdened hinges, and Remus winced slightly. And then he stepped outside and shut it behind him.

And realised that tea would have been so much less complicated.

But now he was out, and he took a deep breath of the cold, wet air, smelling petrol and take away from various places, which managed to intermingle quite civilly, and hearing Muggles shouting back and forth at each other. There were the noises of cars and buses, and head lamps illuminating the semi-darkened streets as the gloom spread.

And he descended the small, black, rickety staircase that snaked up the side of the rather dodgy block of flats, wrapping along each respective level with a grip that was anything but vice-like, if the sporadic swaying and shrieking of metal was to be any indicator.

The pavement was in no better condition than that of the stairs. It was cracked and rebellious; large gaps in the slabs of cement had freely disappeared, catching any innocent passer-by and sending them on an unexpected flight.

Remus had every imperfection along this stretch of the pavement memorised. He'd walked along this path daily for the first month of his living here. Because he had nothing better to do, and no one to see, and the streets of London were always far more inviting than the obscurity of the dilapidated flat.

Now, though, the flat was home to Remus. He'd been no where else (other than odd bookshops in London and Diagon Alley, that is) and had spent his time and effort trying to spruce it up, though the endeavour was nearly fruitless, as the entire building was in it worse for the wear. He'd given up on the Muggle way of removing the grime on July Nineteenth, just twelve days after moving in, and had used magic to add the finishing touches.

Sidestepping a screaming toddler and his obviously exasperated mother, Remus crossed the street, hugging the jacket tighter around him, and keeping his head bent against the rain, eyes watching the dampened pavement with no interest whatsoever; fringe covering his eyes in much the usual fashion. Another "Moony-like quality" as decided by James.

It is always more efficient to look up when attempting to shoulder through crowds of Muggles around the lunch hour, even on a Sunday. Rather reluctantly, Remus followed this piece of advice, hugging the jacket tighter still, and burying his numb hands into the deep, fuzzy, lint-filled pockets. He'd forgotten his scarf.

It wasn't that cold, really. But the wind made it bitingly unbearable, and the rain was cold enough. He wished that he had his scarf. His scarf was comforting. A childish attachment, perhaps; but like the young child's security blanket, so Remus's plaid scarf was to the barely-eighteen-and-a-half-year-old.

Coffee and tea and chocolate intermingled as he passed by a quaint spice shop, and he was momentarily tempted to enter, when he realised that he had barely enough money for the rent as it was, so indulging on the things he loved most would provide only momentary comfort before reality intervened. And reality always did. He hadn't been able to pay the rent last month, and this month he had just enough. If he didn't eat for a week. Or, at the very least, if he would drink nothing but tea. A routine not unlike the one he was currently going through, but not favoured despite the fact.

The scent lingered even as he passed the tiny shop, and the one next to it, and the one after that. It seemed to taunt him; it danced in the air in front of him; it shrieked and screamed and pined for him to turn around and simply purchase something. Anything.

But Remus pressed on, and eventually the smell evanesced into the rain-drenched air, and he was grateful for it. He made a mental note, however, to return to that shop once he'd acquired enough money to actually indulge himself. There had been a bookshop that he wanted to inquire at for a possible job. If he wasn't going to be surrounded by close friends any longer (and how that thought chilled him to the bone like the rain never could), he decided that being surrounded by books and words and the musty smell of old parchment would provide succours of some sort.

_'Keep in touch, Moony!'_ And he had. And he _had_. _And he had._ He had written dozens of letters to his three friends...And bloody _hell_. The void was growing wider, if it were possible. Had he lost them? No. He couldn't have. No one would because Animagi for someone that they didn't give a rats arse about. Then again, Remus was just the excuse they'd need...

He shook his head, and dozens of tiny droplets of water sprinkled about his face, his wet fringe clinging to his forehead and getting in his eyes. He raised a hand to brush the offending strands away, but noticed how it was shaking, and hastily stuffed it back into the warmth of his jacket.

Remus Lupin was lonely, and there was no other way of putting it.

The café on the corner seemed the best stop for something less pricey. He only wanted a cup of tea. Or perhaps something chocolate. Entering, a small silver bell tinkled above his head, and he shied away from it by force of habit. Things like that never happened, but today his mood made him paranoid enough for everything to be worse than in actuality, and therefore, he was a bit jumpy. Or just lonely.

  
Yes, lonely. Something that he had thought would never - _could_ never - happen again.

Severing the thought before he got far too carried away, Remus quickly ordered a cup of tea and a biscuit and sat down outside under an awning. The rain was dripping a safe enough distance away, and the interior of the café was far too occupied for his liking. Despite the fact that he was lonely, he wanted nothing to do with anyone. Perhaps that sort of thinking was what was making him so lonely in the first place.

Or perhaps if that word would just dissipate with the rain, things would be tolerable again.

Sipping at the tea, Remus scanned the street with his earthy brown eyes, not truly processing what was going on, but distracted enough to prevent him from thinking. Or dwelling. Or whatever it was that he was doing.

There was a young girl running about in her good Sunday dress with a yellow Mac which clashed so horrifically that it was oddly ambrosial. The girls' mum was not far behind. And then a bus passed by, obscuring Remus' vision of the opposite side of the street for a time. He looked down at the all-too-familiar dregs sitting at the bottom of the very clean, unchipped cup, listened to the sound of a loud motor revving, more idly chatting pedestrians, and the rain. Always the rain.

The tea downed, the biscuit mere crumbs on the metal table top, Remus rested his head in his hands and shut his eyes. He was tired. He'd had a month of insomnia ever since July's full moon and it had not gone away. Usually the insomnia would last a week or so but being alone seemed to provoke it, prolonging its stay to an extent which made him even blanker in mood than he already happened to be.

Standing back up, Remus decided that he ought to at least do something productive. Or make an attempt. At least, he told himself, if he wasn't productive, he'll go to sleep knowing that he tried to be.

And so, leaving the cup and saucer where they sat, he hugged the jacket around him once more, and stepped out into the dreary weather yet again, head bowed against the rain. His destination was obscure, so he walked with the simple intent of getting as far away from the monotony as was physically possible.

In his escape, he clipped his shoulder with another individual, and without looking up, Remus gave his apologies in his usual calm, gracious manner, and walked on.


	2. dregs of the conscience

**Dregs**

by evanesce

_02. dregs of the conscience_

It had been a long day. A long week for that matter. Hell, it had been a long summer and Sirius Black was now getting a respite. Albeit brief, but a week off was better than a week on, so he took advantage, as he was prone to do, by taking his motorcycle out for a drive. A long drive; across the country and into London, just because he could. He'd seen enough of the Wizarding sections to last him twelve lifetimes, so now he wanted to take a bit of an excursion into the Muggle sections. He'd done that as well, of course, but there was nothing even remotely tedious about venturing back. He'd bought his motorcycle off of a London Muggle, after all.

Taking a leaf out of his own book (the only book he knew), Sirius was currently speeding down the motorway, leather jacket shrunken and folded up in his back pocket in an effort to be more manly; for nothing is as blatantly fuelled by testosterone as driving in the rain at breakneck speed whilst devoid of any protective layers of clothing. In Sirius's case, he was wearing a white tee shirt. Two, actually, but admitting that would be to own up to a less powerful repute of manliness.

And manliness is everything.

That, and fighting big, bad Wizards for a top secret organisation that he was just bursting to tell people about, which, obviously, meant he had to be extra manly.

But it was raining a bit more persistently now, and his hands were numbing quite successfully. He revved his engine in order to spite the idiotic freezing of his extremities, and went just a little bit faster. That is, until he entered Muggle London, which forced him to slow down and then to eventually stop. And then go again. And then stop.

And then get nearly clipped by a bus or whatever those damned, red motorised things are called. And then get lost, although he'd never admit it.

And as the 'ands' piled up, Sirius's spirit dropped down to the point where he'd fallen into a sullen and relatively cranky mood, fuelled only further by the fact that he now had no place to stay, and no purpose for even _being _here in the first place. He didn't really know anyone of any particular importance or intrigue.

James was back at Godric's Hollow. Peter was with the Ministry working on Merlin knows what. Lily was, most likely, with James, and Remus...

Sirius's heart gave an involuntary jolt when he thought of his third best friend; because he hadn't been thinking about his third best friend at all. Not once had it occurred to him that Remus, the reason for the absurd nicknames and half of the better pranks and adventures at Hogwarts, was probably quite alone, quite lonely, and quite, well...Probably not living in the best of environments. Sirius knew, from the sheer reliability of his memory that Remus mentioned he had purchased a small flat in Muggle London. But London was rather large, as it were, and Sirius had no sense of direction when on the ground.

But flying was out of the question.

And now he had, had, _had to see Remus, because Remus was probably wondering why no one was writing to him; was probably wondering if anyone even knew he where he was living; was probably wondering if his friends had left him. Moony's personality contained a certain degree of paranoia, which he had learned to control by use of his calm demeanour. But it didn't make him any less paranoid._

Revving the engine, Sirius now felt entirely guilty. Too guilty. And far less manly.

He parked his bike along the kerb in front of a grocer and stepped out onto the rain-slick pavement, extracting his compacted leather jacket from the back pocket of his trousers. One _Engorgio later and he was far warmer than he had been previously._

Sirius shoved his hands deep within the warmth of the pockets, dodging through the Muggle crowds skilfully. He was going to find Remus. He had no idea how to go about doing this, but he was certainly going to make an effort, and he would be successful too, damn it. Why? Because he was Sirius Black.

Intuition told Sirius to check every Muggle bookshop in London. Logic told him that someone might know of Remus if he were to inquire about him in one of the bookshops. Reasoning told Sirius that this would take a great deal of his day to do, but it would be worth it in the end – should he be successful, of course. And he would be, because he was Sirius Black.

The first store was a tiny shop that was haphazardly pressed between a solicitor's office and a clothing store. An eclectic grouping of stores, thought Sirius as he entered the tiny bookstore. A little brass bell tinkling merrily above his rain-drenched black hair, and he paused, looking up at it.

"Can I help you?"

Sirius jumped, looking around the room for the speaker. A tiny, balding, elderly man wearing a woollen sweater, crisp white shirt, and a pair of worn corduroy trousers with a patterned fabric patch covering one knee, was standing behind a glass counter. The patch reminded Sirius of Remus's brown coat, and he shook his head in order to clear it.

Then he remembered that the man had spoken to him, and thusly, he replied; "Um, I'm looking for someone." Way to sound completely idiotic, Sirius thought as he took a few steps closer to the counter.

"Have you got a name for me to by, then?" asked the man, smiling slightly as he polished a pair of round, gold-rimmed glasses with a dirty rag, undoubtedly used for dusting off books, as it was grey in colour.

"Right. Sorry. Yes, I do. Remus Lupin?" He sounded unsure of himself even as he said it, and watching with dismay as the man shook his head.

"Can't say the name sounds familiar. What does the lad look like? Perhaps I'll remember. Although no guarantees as I'm getting on in years and the memory is not what it once was." The man punctuated this statement with a wheezy laugh, and placed the spectacles on his crooked nose.

Sirius frowned and looked at the bookshelves. "Well, he's got light brown hair. Er, he's fairly frail-looking, I suppose. Not unhealthy, just sort of...tired. He's about my age, which is eighteen, almost nineteen. He's about three inches shorter than I am..." Sirius would have mentioned Remus's blazing eye colour; his characteristic toothy smile; the dark circles under his eyes...But some details would seem far too much to just go about telling a total stranger.

The man stopped, thinking. "Quiet boy?" he asked in a rough, aging voice.

Sirius nodded. "Most of the time."

"I've seen him."

Sirius's heard skipped involuntarily. "Really?" he asked, eagerly.

The man nodded. "Been a while. A week at least. Bought a book about herbs from me. Said he was planning on planting a small box outside of his window. I asked him why, although I'll admit that that was a bit of a foolish thing to ask, and he said that he was looking for something to occupy his time now that he was out of school. I asked where he went to school and he said it was a boarding school in Scotland. You're a friend of his?"

Blinking and jerking back to reality, as he had been momentarily put into a daze by the man's story, Sirius nodded. "Yeah. We, ah, went to school together. Haven't seen him in a while."

The man nodded. "Nice boy."

And it was then that Sirius remembered his entire purpose of asking about Remus in the first place. "Do you know where he lives, by any chance?"

The man shrugged. "We don't keep those records on file. The newer stores, well, they do. I'm afraid that I've never been inclined to keep track of a client's residence."

"Oh. Well, thanks anyway," Sirius replied with a smile, and left the shop.

Well, he thought to himself, it hadn't been a completely useless visit. He now knew that Remus lived within walking distance of this shop (as he doubted his friend would ever purchase one of those Muggle automobiles, and flooing was out of the question). And so, with that thought in mind, Sirius proceeded to the next bookshop, with the same results.

After a rather unsavoury amount of walking had produced nothing but unknowns, Sirius doubled back to his bike, revving the engine to alleviate some of his sudden annoyance, and kicked away from the kerb. He played a game of cat and mouse with the cars, darting in between as many vehicles as he possibly could, until he reached a part of town that boasted three old bookshops, all in a row.

The possibilities now wide open, Sirius parked again, stepping off of his trusty bike and briskly jogging across the road.

There was a small café on the corner, and he happened to be craving coffee for some decidedly random reason, so he began to hurry towards the warmth of the building, completely disregarding it when he slammed shoulder to shoulder with another pedestrian, and instead, kept going.

Muttered apologies in a familiar voice only vaguely registered in his mind as Sirius stepped inside of the café, intent on some sort of caffeinated liquid to sustain his energy long enough to make some real progress in the matter of finding Remus. It wasn't until he sat down near the front windows, coffee in hand, that the familiar voice clicked, and he suddenly realised who he had run into.

_Remus._

Nearly choking on his first sip, Sirius jumped up, toppling the metal café chair over and proceeding to make as much chaos as humanly possible, in the effort to get out of the building as fast as possible.

Fumbling with the door knob as if he'd never encountered one before was only half of his problems. He spilt the coffee down his front, yelping and swearing as his skin was scorched, and his white shirt stained noticeably. He'd fix it later, but for now he has in hot pursuit of his best friend.

Muggles. Everywhere there were Muggles and not one would bloody _move! No amount of shouldering could part the throngs of returned Church-goers and nattering teen girls with their irksome shopping bags. Sirius tried to be polite, but no one heard him. Sirius tried to be violent, but no one cared. Sirius tried to Apparate, but realised how stupid of an idea that was, albeit he'd save the idea if things got truly desperate._

And things were getting more desperate by the second.

A mad rush of people exited one clothing store at once, drowning him in frenzied chats and hurried walking. Sirius managed to break free, and as he did so, he finally spotted the familiar light brown hair and dark brown jacket that he'd known so well and for so long.

He began to walk a bit faster, as the Muggles had nearly completely cleared out of his path, and the space between himself and Remus began to shrink. Soon, Sirius was only a few paces behind. And then none at all.

He reached out and gently tapped the slighter boy on the shoulder.


	3. dregs washed away

**Dregs**

by evanesce

_03. dregs washed away_

Remus had been intent on going home the long way. He had been intent on being miserable and self-pitied for another hour at the very least. He had been hoping to have a reason to move to Timbuktu or Djibouti or some such location that would be unknown to his friends. Or, if not unknown, then one which they would hardly string together in a sentence containing the name Remus Lupin. Or just Remus. Or Moony.

In any case, should he move to one of the two aforementioned locals, Remus deduced that could most likely study for days on end and never feel as though he would be missing anything, because that's precisely how he felt now, and to say that he disliked it would be a blatant understatement.

But there had been a hand on his shoulder, so naturally Remus had turned around. What he was expecting, however, was not what he received, and in his surprise at finding Sirius Black standing behind him, looking as pitiful as a stray dog, Remus had let all of his usual composure betray him, and he did something he had never done. Ever. And even when he went back and reflected upon it, he realised how stupid and unlike him it was to do what he did.

He fled.

Well, he supposed he hadn't truly fled; he simply blanched, turned back around, and walked a little bit faster, completely aware that he had left Sirius, undoubtedly unmoving, behind him, with no explanation what so ever.

And now he felt stupid.

Sirius, on the other hand, was quite sure of one thing; he was very confused. Tapping someone on the shoulder had always been a normal, friendly manner of getting someone's attention. Apparently Remus didn't think this way.

And now Remus was getting away from him. And Sirius, being who he was, was not about to let such a thing befall him. So he followed Remus, and when the latter had reached a point in the road where the auto--, well, the Muggle motorised things had the domination of the roadway, Remus had to stop, and Sirius took this ample opportunity to greet him again.

"Remus?" Perhaps Sirius had done something wrong? He couldn't remember saying anything stupid on the day of graduation. In fact, he couldn't remember saying anything at all to the other boy, which was both surreal to think of, and also unnerving.

The bruised sky was of more comfort to gaze upon that the sullen face of the boy next to him, whose gaze, in turn, seemed fixed on the same crescent washed in grey.

And indeed it was. Remus found the unnatural colouring of the sky to only mirror his emotions, and the comfort in that, well, wasn't a comfort at all. Because, after all, who is truly comfortable in knowing that the phenomenon they find themselves identifying with is the phenomenon everyone else, including themselves, resent? And Remus knew all too well the feeling of being the object of resentment amongst his peers, his elders, even those who were barely old enough to talk.

"Hey, er..."

Remus fell back into his senses with an uncomfortable feeling of bitter reality, and, with reluctance, turned to face Sirius. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the cars stopped and the pedestrians who had slowly been collecting like rain in a gutter, were ushered across the road. Remus gave Sirius a helpless shrug and turned back around to cross in the midst of the throng; so that he'd blend in; so that, for one vain moment, he'd be like everyone else; a simple citizen wishing to reach the other side.

Sirius had other plans.

Hooking his right hand around Remus' wrist, Sirius held the boy back despite the persistent flow of traffic that countered their movements with alacrity.

A child dressed in a tartan Mac hit Sirius with her little umbrella as she passed, hand-in-hand with her mother (who threw Sirius the parental "Terribly sorry! Kids will be kids, will they not?" look). Remus laughed. Well, it wasn't a laugh so much as it was a smile accompanied by a light hum of amusement somewhere at the back of his throat.

Sirius caught the sound, noted its meaning, and smiled in a self-conscious manner. "How're you?" Ah, yes. The innocence with which such a question was presented still felt like the epitome of the uncaring individual's intentions, and Remus shrugged, glancing askance over his shoulder at the now busy road.

"Well enough." This was, for all it was worth, the truth in its candid entirety.

"So I'm going to assume that you--"

"You're soaked." It was so abrupt and so utterly out of context that Remus had scarcely blinked before he'd realised that he had even said it.

Sirius smiled. "So're you."

"Are you cold? I've a flat near here and I could make you some tea. If you'd like, that is." No sense rushing into things. Besides, Sirius had never been much of a tea-drinker. No one could match Remus, this was painfully true, but Sirius preferred his raw and untamed coffee to the delicate and refined tea which Remus enjoyed so much. Apparently, like the wand picks the Wizard, the hot beverage picks the drinker. In which case, Remus had been glommed on to by two; cocoa and tea.

"That would be lovely."

  
And slowly, perhaps so much so that neither party understood, nor even full recognised what was finally coming to pass, something was exchanged between the two; something to unify them both, whether they should have chose to admit it at that exact moment or tuck it away for an evening when the hot beverages would indeed be summoned as a companion for heartfelt colloquy.

But for now; for now simply standing in the rain, partially illuminated by the flickering headlamps of the rumbling vehicles, was enough. For now, simply smiling and nodding for no other reason than a thank you, was enough. For now.

It wouldn't always be enough.

Whatever ethereal entity was melding thoughts was also directing action, and Sirius, without thinking long enough to know to second guess, draped one arm lazily across Remus's shoulders, fingers idly drumming a tuneless melody on the other's soaked jacket and enabling them, together, to finally manage to conquer the grey paved river that stretched between Running Away, and Coming Home.

_Fin._


End file.
